


A New Becoming

by FlannelEpicurean



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Birth, Established Relationship, Hannibal - Freeform, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Omega Verse, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will Graham - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlannelEpicurean/pseuds/FlannelEpicurean
Summary: In which Hannibal copes poorly with a pregnancy.





	A New Becoming

The act itself is rather tame. Will is more gentle than Hannibal usually likes, but there has always been something tender in his alpha. Something sweet. But Hannibal, in the height of his heat, wants to be taken, utterly. Still, when Will’s knot swells inside him, and he hears the roar of his alpha as he finishes, there is satisfaction.

Hannibal knows, before he even gets up to wash. He wants to share the knowledge, but something makes him hesitate, and the words die on his lips. 

_You’ve made me pregnant, Will._

********

Will has never been controlling. Except for his one betrayal, he has never been deeply cruel. And he showed such promise with Abigail. 

********

Will notices, earlier than Hannibal expects. Perhaps it’s a shift in Hannibal’s scent, brought on by changing hormones. Perhaps it’s the fact that they’ve become so attuned to each other, that their connection has grown and deepened since the moment they first scented each other. 

Hannibal permits himself a small, private smile at the memory. Jack’s office. Close enough quarters that his already-keen sense of smell was nearly overpowered by the fragrance radiating from the odd little alpha. And not just his sense of smell, if he’s honest; his whole being had screamed at that moment. Kindled a desire in him to explore, to delve, to know this man, intimately. He’d had to restrain himself from licking his lips. From getting carried away imagining how his internal organs might look. 

“Hannibal?” The soft pronunciation of his name jolts him back to the present. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Hannibal looks up across the breakfast table. Will’s expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are sharp, searching. Hannibal sips coffee, buying time. “Is there something you wish me to tell you, Will?” he counters. 

Will puts down his fork. Leans his chin on folded hands. “You seem...off, lately,” he says. Imprecise, but true. “You seem worried.” 

Hannibal’s pulse speeds slightly, though he gives no outward signal. 

Will licks his lips. “Is someone looking for us?” he asks. “I need to know, if they are.” 

“No,” Hannibal says, his tone calm and final. But he has yet to meet Will’s eyes. 

“So what is it?” Will asks his question softly, but it is still a demand. 

Hannibal gives the smallest of sighs. Finally looks directly at Will. “I’m pregnant,” he says simply. 

Will raises his head from his hands. “You’re…” He cocks his head to one side. “What?”

Hannibal blinks slowly. “I’m pregnant.” 

Will squints. “Pregnant,” he repeats, as though it’s the first time he’s heard the word. His eyes shut momentarily, then open under upraised brows. He shakes his head. “How?”

“In the usual way,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly. “You know these things can happen sometimes, when an omega enters a heat and mates with an alpha.” 

Will slumps back in his chair. “I never thought...I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize, Will,” Hannibal says. He waits.

Will’s eyes flit up to meet Hannibal’s. “So what do we do?”

Hannibal tilts his head, the merest suggestion of a shrug. “There are two options. I can continue the pregnancy, or end it.” 

A tension enters the spaces around Will’s eyes and mouth. “A child…” he murmurs. “Could we,” he ventures, “could we raise a child, on the run? In hiding?”

Hannibal wraps his hands around his coffee cup. “We could do many things, Will.” 

Will rubs both hands up and down his face. “It’s your decision, in the end. But I need to think about it, if we’re talking about raising a child.”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal says. Inside, his heart aches. 

********

Hannibal looks himself over in the mirror and frowns. His reflection is pale, dewy with perspiration. Fighting the nausea has become a full-time battle. But he has resolved to maintain his dignity. 

Will has been supportive, of course. When he does the cooking, he is careful to avoid creating any smells or flavors that turn Hannibal’s newly-sensitive stomach. Gone are the fine potions Hannibal bought him to replace his dreadful after-shave. He smells of nothing now but his natural scent, which Hannibal still finds pleasing even when it is strong with pheromones. 

Despite his unhappiness with his appearance, Hannibal dresses with his usual care, and descends the stairs to find Will making breakfast. He pauses at the base of the stairs and delicately, cautiously, scents the air. Curls of sweet potato and carrot, frying in duck fat. Eggs poaching in lightly vinegared water. Toast browning in the oven. Strong, dark coffee. 

Hannibal blanches further. A mere week ago, he would have found the commingled aromas pleasing. But today, something about them is too rich, too strong. His knees weaken. It’s the duck fat, he thinks, making an undignified dash to the nearest bathroom. 

He does manage to hastily lay a towel on the floor before kneeling. 

When his stomach is empty, he feels a hand on his back. It is hesitant at first, its touch light. But then a more confident pressure follows, and begins to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades. 

“Let me take your jacket,” Will says quietly. 

Hannibal shrugs out of it, leans his clammy face into his damp hands as Will hangs the garment. He doesn’t look up, even as his alpha comes and sits on the tiles next to him. 

“How are you feeling?” Will asks, returning his hand to Hannibal’s back. 

Hannibal swallows, resenting the taste of acid in his mouth, the burning in his throat. “Terribly embarrassed,” he admits. 

“It’s okay,” Will murmurs. Then, “I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t know,” Hannibal offers. “You couldn’t have.” 

Will reaches over and presses the flush lever. Stands momentarily and runs the sink. Crouches next to Hannibal and offers a damp cloth. Hannibal wipes down his face and hands, then his mouth. Will takes the cloth back and drops it into the hamper. “Water?” he asks. 

Hannibal nods, morose. 

Will exits the bathroom, and returns shortly with a full glass. Hannibal gets to his feet. Takes in a sip. Rinses his mouth and spits into the sink, disgusted with himself. Then slowly drinks down the glass, careful not to allow too much to enter his stomach at one time. 

Will’s hand caresses his shoulder. “Better?”

“Better,” Hannibal assures him. Then, “No more duck fat.” 

Will nods. “I’ll add that to the list.” 

********

No wine. No soft cheeses. No cured meats. No raw fish. No second cup of coffee. And more.

It’s almost too much, at times. 

********

Hannibal’s growing belly begins to affect the hang of his finely-tailored suits. Soon, they must be put away, consigned to a corner full of things that no longer fit. He orders new suits. Contemplates new cuts that will hide his burgeoning girth for a time. Contemplates new fabrics that will stretch with his changing body, and dismisses them with revulsion. He cannot bring himself to wear elastic. 

********

The first kick makes it all worthwhile. 

********

“What if there are complications?” Will asks, his face chalk-white with worry. 

“You can do this, Will,” Hannibal assures him. “I have every confidence in you.” 

Will looks practically sick. “A home birth,” he begins. Licks his lips. “I know we need to be careful about being identified. But don’t you think a hospital might be better equipped?”

Hannibal regards him silently. Will has already seen the birthing suite Hannibal has created in what used to be the killing room. It is the most carefully sterile area in the house.

Will changes tack. “It’ll make an awful mess in our home. I know how you feel about this place getting messy.”

Hannibal tilts his head a few degrees toward Will. “Your tendency toward untidiness has no bearing on the matter.” He sips mint tea from a fine china cup. “Besides, the mess this will produce pales in comparison to what has occurred in that room before.” 

Will slumps, defeated. Runs a hand through his hair. Sighs through his nose. 

“What can I say to you that will ease your worries, Will?”

Will’s eyes meet Hannibal’s, like timid birds. “Just...tell me everything will be all right.”

Hannibal keeps a supporting hand under his belly, taking some of the strain off his aching back as he gets to his feet. As he approaches Will, he does not mind, for once, that his formerly graceful stride has turned into more of a waddle. He takes Will’s stubbled chin in his hand, and leans forward to kiss the corner of his alpha’s mouth. “Everything will be all right,” he says. 

********

When it happens, it happens quickly. With the first strong contractions, Hannibal retreats to the birthing suite. He barely has time to slip out of his shoes and trousers before his water breaks, sending a sudden rush of fluid down the insides of his legs. For reasons he deems inexplicable, the thought that enters his head as he climbs into the bed, panting his way through a contraction, is of his ruined socks. 

It seems mere seconds before the contractions steal his breath entirely. He focuses on Will, who trembles as he scrubs up, dons mask and gown and gloves. Hannibal sucks in air, nods at his alpha. “You can do this,” he gasps. His belly clamps, hard, and he curls forward around it, letting out a roar as he gives in to the irresistible urge to push. 

“Epidural,” Will says, as though suddenly remembering.

“No time.” Hannibal’s voice comes out strangled, desperate. He loses himself completely, pushing with all his might. Hears Will distantly, picks out the word “crowning.” Clamps down on his instinct to bellow out his breath and holds it instead, using the extra pressure to push more forcefully. The pain is worse than being shot, worse than the throbbing aftermath of a stabbing. Yet it is somehow transcendent. 

Suddenly, the pressure eases, the contractions come to a blessed end. Hannibal lets out his pent-up breath, gulps cool air. A squeaking wail breaks through the fog in his head, with Will’s voice underneath repeating joyfully, tearfully, “Oh my god, oh my god…” 

Then Will is beside him, carefully depositing a sticky, screaming infant into Hannibal’s arms. Will beams down a his omega, at his child. “He’s beautiful,” he breathes. 

“A boy,” Hannibal croaks, looking down at the baby he now holds. “A boy.” 

And for the first time in nearly a year, he feels completely content.


End file.
